Nightingale

by Jennifer Estep

  The bickering beauty consultants worked on me for about thirty minutes before both seemed satisfied. They stepped back and stared at me.

  “You good?” Sabrina asked.

  Harold nodded. “Yep. You?”

  She nodded.

  Sabrina whipped off the smock around my neck, while Harold spun the chair around so I could see what they’d done. I met my own eyes in the mirror.

  Amazing—that was the only word to describe my transformation. Harold had taken my plain, brown hair, given it a bit of volume, and twisted it up into a fancy bun. Curled tendrils framed my face, softening the harsh line of the bun. Two sapphire chopsticks held the updo in place.

  My face glowed thanks to the bronzing powder and blush Sabrina had used. She’d painted my eyes a smoky black and lined them with a silver shade, making them seem big and bright. She’d colored my lips a deep raspberry, sealing in the vibrant pink with a layer of clear gloss.

  I looked better than ever before. Polished. Put-together. Sophisticated. And dare I say it, sexy. Abby Appleby was gone. So was Wren.

  Tonight, I looked like Nightingale.

  I just stared into the mirror, awestruck by the change. The consultants took that as a sign of approval.

  “You’re welcome,” Sabrina said, packing up her powder puffs and pots of color.

  “Ditto,” Harold echoed, grabbing his own gear.

  Sabrina handed me a plastic bag full of bottles and brushes. “Here are some trial sizes of everything I used on you tonight, along with Harold’s stuff. Try them out. If you like the look, come back next week, and we’ll see what other products might work for you.”

  Both passed me their cards. I palmed the cards and nodded, still too dumbstruck to speak. The consultants moved off into the crowd. I kept staring into the mirror.

  “Abby, you look wonderful!” Piper squeezed my hand. “Wesley is going to take one look at you and wonder where you’ve been all his life.”

  I squeezed her hand back, but my answering smile quickly faded.

  Underneath the fancy dress, perfect hair, and marvelous skin, I was still the same old Abby—the same woman I’d always been. Was a little color on my lips and cheeks going to be enough to dazzle Wesley? I didn’t know.

  But I was ready to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Piper had to return to work to take a late conference call. She promised to swing by my office, pick up Rascal, and bring him to the party. I grabbed another taxi and headed back to the convention center, arriving a little after six. Things weren’t officially supposed to get under way until seven, but I wanted to double-check the food and decorations one more time. I wanted—no, needed—everything to be perfect tonight.

  I pushed through the doors of the center and waved to Eddie at the front desk. He frowned, as if he didn’t know who I was, but I kept walking. Well, tottering would have been a better description. The sandals matched my dress perfectly, but they were hell on my feet.

  I made my way to the break room. A lone cigarette sat in an ashtray on one of the tables. Colt must have just left. I spun the combination dial on my locker, grabbed my can of air freshener, and doused the whole room.

  When the air was somewhat clear, I shrugged out of my coat and stuffed it into the locker, along with the miniscule purse Piper had given me. It might look pretty, but it wasn’t big enough to hold my supplies. So, I put on my Party Vest, zipped it up, and checked the pockets. Piper had been more than thorough. She’d restocked every single hidey-hole with the appropriate item, from breath mints to garbage bags. She was a good friend.

  I shut the locker and headed down the long hallway that ran through the middle of the center. When I reached a door labeled Main Kitchen, I dug my key out of my vest and let myself in.

  Kyle and his staff were already there. Strawberries, kiwis, and other fruits painted every visible surface with a rainbow of pinks and greens. An army of apron-clad chefs chopped, peeled, and mashed everything from avocados to zucchinis. The steady thwacks-thwacks-thwacks of their flashing knives created a weird harmony. Trays of bread warmed on racks, while more workers filled glasses with ice water and limes. Kyle arranged cream cheese canapés on serving trays. His hands blurred together as he stacked the appetizers on top of each other.

  Kyle slowed at the sound of the door slamming behind me. He blinked once and did a double take. He stopped, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Then he let out a low whistle. “Nice dress, Abby.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stalked through the kitchen, my eyes flicking over the pots and pans. Tomato bisque simmered on the stove, while potatoes baked for a second time in the industrial-size ovens. Chefs dumped pounds of pasta into boiling water, while others pan-seared chicken over open flames. Pepper, cinnamon, vanilla, and more spiced the air.

  I opened my mouth to launch into my usual tirade about serving times, but Kyle beat me to the punch.

  “The hors d’oeuvres will start circulating at seven,” he said. “Dinner begins at seven thirty, followed by the speech at eight. We’ll roll out the strawberry and chocolate fondue fountain at eight fifteen, and more hors d’oeuvres will be available at eight-thirty when folks decide to start dancing. Did I miss anything?”

  I gritted my teeth. “No.”

  “So, relax, Abby.” Kyle gave me his usual lazy grin. “Try to have a little fun tonight. Everything will be perfect.”

  “It better be,” I warned. “Or else—”

  “Or else you’ll chop off my fingers and feed them to me,” he finished, still smiling. “I’ve heard it all before, and I haven’t lost my fingers yet, have I?”

  I clamped my mouth shut. Damn. I really needed to get some new threats.

  #

  I left Kyle to his canapés and walked to the auditorium. The disco balls hanging from the catwalk caught the dim light and reflected it back. Everything shimmered and shined, from the sparkling silverware on the tables to the white and black tiles in the checkerboard dance floor. The two guitar-shaped ice sculptures towered into the air at the foot of the auditorium, creating a perfect frame for the stage behind them. Workers scurried back and forth at the bar, popping corks off champagne bottles and cutting up limes, lemons, and oranges.

  Everything looked perfect, but I couldn’t relax. I knew from past experience things rarely went off without a hitch—no matter how much I planned. I strolled toward the bar to make sure nobody was being particularly clumsy. Up on the stage, Stanley Solomon talked to Hilary Hoover, a young woman with bright pink hair. Hilary was the drummer for Miked, Melody Masters’s band. Stanley played bass guitar. His dark eyes fell on me, and he gestured for me to climb the stairs and join them.

  Hilary rushed over as soon as I set foot on the stage. “Abby! Thank goodness you’re here!”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, sighing on the inside. Nobody ever rushed up to me unless there was a major problem.

  “Melody is sick,” Stanley rumbled. “Which means we don’t have a lead singer for the band tonight.”

  I closed my eyes. Of all the things that could happen, this was near the top of the list in terms of badness because the event theme revolved around rock ’n’ roll. The disco balls, the guitar ice sculptures, the dance floor. What would a rock ’n’ roll party be without the actual rock ’n’ rollers? Boring—not hip or fresh or cool, just a boring letdown. Besides, if I didn’t have any music at this thing, people would riot. They had to have something to drink and dance to.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  Melody had looked fine when I’d seen her earlier. Maybe if she wasn’t too sick, she could do at least one number—

  “In the hospital,” Stanley replied. “She passed out earlier today at The Blues. Her temp was a hundred and three. Doctors think it’s a bad case of the flu. They’re giving her fluids and keeping her overnight for observation.”

  I rubbed my aching head. This was not the end of the world. I wasn’t going to let it be. I looked at H
ilary. “What about you? You sing backup. Can’t you cover for her?”

  Hilary shook her head. “Backup, not lead vocals. Besides, I think I’m coming down with what Melody has. My throat is sore, and my voice is really raspy, just like hers.”

  I ignored the pounding in my head. “All right, this is what we’re going to do. You guys will get on stage and play through the opening round of drinks and dinner. Don’t sing; just play instrumental versions of whatever you want. Just make it upbeat and snappy.”

  “What are you doing to do?” Stanley asked.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Chloe’s number. “I’m going to find you a lead singer.”

  Chloe picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I just parked my car. I should be there in about five minutes.”

  “Get here faster,” I said. “We have a major problem.”

  #

  I let Chloe oversee the food and drinks while I tried to conjure up a lead singer for the remaining members of Miked. People started arriving around seven. Everyone dashed down to the bar, grabbing drinks and oohing and aahing over the ice sculptures.

  Piper was one of the first people through the door, Rascal trotting by her side. Despite my crisis, I laughed when I saw the puppy.

  “A doggie tux!” I bent down to pet him. “Where did you get a doggie tux?”

  Piper smiled. “Fiona’s decided to branch out into petwear. She says there’s no excuse for people to dress their dogs in those horrible sweaters now that she’s on the job.”

  Rascal barked and turned around, showing off his designer suit. I scratched his ears, and he leaned into me, his fur tickling my bare legs.

  “I’d love to stay with you guys, but I have work to do.” I told Piper about my musical crisis.

  She nodded. “We’ll catch up later then. Come on, Rascal. Let’s go get some champagne.”

  The puppy barked again and followed her.

  Wesley Weston made his grand entrance at seven-fifteen. Tonight, he wore a navy blue tuxedo and a crisp white shirt. Diamond cufflinks glittered on the ends of his sleeves, while his chestnut hair gleamed underneath the disco balls. He looked every inch the billionaire he was.

  Wesley grabbed some champagne and scanned the crowd, as though he was looking for someone. For a moment, I wondered if it could be me. Then I forced myself to be rational. Wesley wasn’t looking for me. He was probably doing a mental inventory, seeing who had showed up and who hadn’t. Even if he was searching for me, I didn’t have time to say hello. I was too busy trying to avert another crisis. Still, I watched him work the crowd, shaking hands, smiling, and making small talk. His brunette from the library was nowhere to be found. It seemed Wesley was flying solo tonight. That gave me a little bit of hope, even though just about every single woman at the party made it a point to go over and say hello to him.

  While Bigtime’s elite munched on music-note-shaped canapés, I systematically went through the contacts in my cell phone. I called every single singer, musician, and drummer in the city. Nobody was free. I strong-armed Eddie into bringing me a phone book from the lobby and started going through the yellow pages.

  Nothing. I came up with nothing. Every single singer in the greater Bigtime area was already booked for tonight. By seven-thirty, I was desperate. By eight, frantic. The lights went down, and Wesley stood up to give his speech about how Gelled was the ultimate lip-care company. I huddled backstage for a conference with Hilary and Stanley. Piper and Rascal were there too.

  I checked my watch again. Thirteen minutes, twenty-five seconds left until the band was supposed to start rocking the stage, and I was short one singer. “I couldn’t find anybody. Nobody. I’m sorry. You guys will just have to do your best.”

  Stanley and Hilary stared at each other, then Stanley turned to me.

  “Why don’t you do it?” he suggested. “We’ve both heard you down at The Blues. You’re good enough to front for Melody this one time, and you know all the songs. All you have to do is one set, just enough to get the crowd rocking. We can take it from there.”

  The thought made nervous tingles shoot through my body. It was one thing to sing in The Blues in front of drunken frat boys and giggling co-eds. It was quite another to rock out in front of the Bigtime society crowd—my clients. I peeked through the curtains lining the stage. Wesley was well into his speech now. I checked my watch again.

  Twelve minutes, twenty-nine seconds, and no rock ’n’ roll divas in sight.

  “I don’t think you really have a choice,” Stanley said. “Not if you want a singer tonight.”

  I looked at him, then Hilary, then Piper. A sigh of acceptance escaped my lips. I pressed a button on my cell phone. “Chloe, can you handle things for the next thirty minutes?”

  “Sure,” Chloe’s voice echoed back to me. “Do you need a break?”

  “Not exactly.” I closed my eyes. “I’m going to be on stage.”

  #

  Chloe agreed to take care of any other problems that might pop up. Stanley put a microphone in my trembling hand, while Hilary gave me a quick rundown of the play list, even though I’d already memorized it. Then, the two of them moved off to see to a few other things before we took to the stage. I unzipped my Party Vest.

  “Hold this, and don’t let it out of your sight,” I said, shoving the vest at Piper.

  “You got the mystery flash drive in here?” she whispered.

  I nodded. “Yeah. And get the relaxidon ready. I’m going to need it—a lot of it—if this doesn’t go well.”

  “Take a breath, Abby,” Piper said. “You’re going to do great.”

  Rascal licked my toes in agreement.

  Seven minutes and thirteen seconds later, I found myself standing in the middle of the stage. Stanley flanked me on the left, his guitar heavy in his hands. Hilary sat off to my right surrounded by her drum set.

  Everything came into supersharp focus. The smell of the chicken that had been served for dinner. Stanley’s sandalwood cologne. Hilary’s cherry-scented lip gloss. The faint swirl of air against my cheeks. The knit dress rubbing against my skin. My own frantic heartbeat.

  “And now, it’s time to get … Miked!” the announcer screamed.

  The curtains drew back from the stage, and the crowd went wild. Stanley thumbed out some loud chords. Hilary added a steady beat on her drums. I drew in a deep breath, put the microphone up to my lips, and started to sing.

  I sang everything from rock classics to power ballads to a few Miked originals. During the songs, I squinted against the spotlights and looked through the throngs of people, searching for Wesley, but I didn’t see him anywhere. So I focused on my singing, letting the music carry me away. Trying to match my voice, my tone, my rhythm to the chords and harmonies filling my ear.

  And I found myself getting into it. Throwing my arms out wide. Strutting up and down the stage. Blowing kisses to the crowd. The music turned on something inside me, something that liked the spotlight, that craved the attention.

  The first set wound down after about twenty minutes. Stanley took the microphone from me and announced that the band was taking a break. The spotlight went off, and the curtains closed. The heady rush of adrenaline wore off, and tremors shook my body. I doubled over and put my hands on my knees, trying not to throw up.

  “That was great, Abby!” Hilary said, coming out from behind her drums. “Melody couldn’t have done better herself.”

  “You did good,” Stanley said. “Real good. You wanna do another set?”

  I shook my head. “No. I think that was enough for one night. Can you guys handle it from here?”

  The musicians nodded.

  “Good, because I’m going to get some air.”

  I stumbled down the steps and out into the auditorium. My eyes fixed on the door that led to the hidden corridor. I walked toward it, not even acknowledging Piper, Rascal, or the people like Carmen Cole who said hello to me.

 
I went into the corridor and walked about fifty feet down the hallway. I’d just slumped against the cool concrete wall, when steps quickened on the carpet behind me.

  I looked up, and there he was—Wesley.

  Coming right at me.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wesley stopped about twenty feet away. His eyes traced my face, my shellacked hair, my blue dress, my ridiculous shoes. Then, he said the one word that made my world start to crumble.

  “Nightingale?” he whispered.

  Terror roared through my body. No. Oh no. He couldn’t find out now, not like this. Not when I looked like a sweaty reject from a hair band.

  “Nightingale?” he asked again.

  I should have protested, should have shook my head as though the name meant nothing to me, but I couldn’t. Not after everything that had happened between us.

  “Nightingale,” Wesley said, his voice harder and more certain.

  I bit my lip, whirled around, and walked away from him.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  By that time, I’d broken into a full-fledged run. I scampered down the corridor, trying to find someplace to hide, someplace where he wouldn’t find me. I spotted a broom closet out of the corner of my eye. Hands shaking, I twisted the knob, yanked the door open, and closed it, hoping he hadn’t seen me come in here—but he had.

  A second later, the door jerked open, and Wesley stepped inside. He scrutinized my makeup and hair. His gaze trailed down my body and over the blue dress. Recognition dawned on his face. “Abby? Abby Appleby?”

  “That’s my name,” I said, laughing and trying to make a joke of things.

  Wesley stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “You’re Nightingale? My Nightingale?”

  I tried to move past him, but he put his hand on the wall, blocking me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nightingale is your mystery woman. Not me.”